


Specifically not pacifically

by AmberlyHuntress



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry had his haircut, Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, Hermione had her friends~, How Hermione learnt she was a witch, Literally just Hermione, Nearly Headless Nick - Freeform, Neville had his bouncing, Set pre-Harry Potter, Vignette, and ~ghosts, her parents - Freeform, okey, why does my ending suck?, woah I wrote exactly 1000 words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:02:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28606401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberlyHuntress/pseuds/AmberlyHuntress
Summary: Hermione Granger makes a friend
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Specifically not pacifically

Hermione had known that she was different long before her parents suspected anything. It wasn’t just the flowers that miraculously bloomed overnight after dying in the winter frost that gave told her something was amiss. Nor was it the way that the cruel teacher at her primary school, Mrs Parkett, somehow managed to lose all of her hair in a freak accident after telling Hermione off correcting her spelling. No. It was the ghosts.

The Victorian townhouse that the Grangers lived in was much too big for a family of three. And with her parents working long hours at their dental practice, Hermione was often left to her own devices. None of her schoolmates ever came over; it was hard to make friends when you were constantly infuriated by their improper pronunciation or inability to learn that the word was _specifically_ and most definitely _not_ pacifically. Moreover, it was difficult to make friends when your only companions happened to be invisible friends that nobody else could see.

Although the oak tree that stood in the front garden of the townhouse was resplendent, Hermione couldn’t help feeling that it was perhaps some kind of omen. She knew that they were often considered symbols of death for the way that the leaves would shed, eventually rotting and dying. A symbol of sacrifice. But her parents were excited. Their clinic was doing well, and they’d finally be able to move out of their tiny apartment into an actual house. 

“We’ll have room for a library, Mione,” her father had said. She’d been just tall enough for him to pat her shoulder without stooping. “And you’ll be able to invite all your school friends over,” said her mother. Hermione didn’t bother mentioning that she didn’t have any friends. Although she was only ten years old, she was very perceptive; she’d seen the worried glances her parents had cast at each other when she said that there wasn’t anybody in her class she’d like to invite over for her birthday. 

Maybe her parents were right to be positive though. After all, whose to say that she wouldn’t befriend one of the kids in the new neighbourhood. Nevertheless, her intuition was right, in a way. The ‘ _Sold!_ ’ sign outside of their house hadn’t been gone a day when Hermione started hearing things, seeing things.

Lights would flicker off for no reason before switching back on. “It’s just the old wiring,” said her parents. “Lots of old houses are like that.” But they never noticed the way that the light switches moved, as if some invisible being had their hand on the actual switch. If Hermione were being truthful, her parents didn’t notice a lot of things. They had no response when Hermione asked about the laughter that sounded through the house during the dead hours of night. The melodic sound haunting and low, as if whisked away by a phantom breeze.

After Hermione told her parents about that incident, she’d vowed not to tell them about any of the other weird happenings. The ticking of the clock had woken that night. It was an old thing, a gift from a great aunt. And it had broken years ago. And yet, in the new house, it would tick every night. Hermione hadn’t felt scared by its impulsive ticking. Just irritated. She had an algebra exam the next day. What would she do if she didn’t get a full nine hours sleep? She’d padded downstairs, ignoring the chill that went through her as she crossed the threshold of her room. Her parents’ voice glided up toward her, set against the white noise of the static that took hold of the television at stochastic intervals. 

“Maybe it’s time to see a psychologist. Or some kind of doctor.”

Her mother’s voice had been hesitant, and wavering, as if she were holding back tears. Hermione held her breath, titling her head in order to hear better. She ignored the handprints that appeared in the condensation of the window by the living room. They were small, the size of a child’s hands, and yet Hermione hadn’t been anywhere near it. 

She hadn’t been able to catch her father’s murmured reply. The shrill laughter had cut across the quiet of the living room once again. And yet, her parents seemed oblivious to it. 

A tear fell from Hermione’s eye, as she pulled back, padded quickly away from the room and up the stairs. She leaned her head against the faded wallpaper. 

“I don’t want to be alone.” Her voice came out, barely a whisper. 

“You aren’t alone.” The voice sounded bemused. 

Hermione blinked and the figure came into focus. His features were clouded as if he were trapped between worlds, and when she put her hand onto his, she felt that cold sensation yet again. The boy was barely older than she was, and yet he had spent over a lifetime in the house. Watching the newcomers, welcoming them with morse code messages written in the flickering of the lights and scraping of the pipes. Why didn’t anybody notice the way the scrabble tiles on the coffee table always spelled out greetings? Why hadn’t anybody seen that was there always a singular white piece not in formation? A pawn moved ahead a couple spaces, or a white knight waiting valiantly to attack the enemy pieces?

Over time, it became clear that Hermione’s parents were correct in their belief that the new house would do their daughter good. While she didn’t make any new friends with the neighbours’ kids, Hermione seemed perfectly content to while away her hours in the library. Oddly enough, she never seemed lonely. Once or twice, her mother had inquired who her daughter had been conversing with. Hermione had always replied that she was just reciting lines fro her books. Most curious of all, was the fact that Hermione expressed no surprise whatsoever when her letter from Hogwarts arrived. It was if somebody had already told her all about it.

**Author's Note:**

> Okey, I have not written anything except archaeology essays and neurobiology lab reports for MONTHS and I am ever-so-slowly easing back into writing. Welp. 
> 
> If you read this, please leave a kudo and a comment - they give me life - even though this story is most probably TRASH. Thank youuu xx


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